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Dreary and brown the night comes down,

Gloomy, without a star.

On Palos town the night comes down;

The day departs with a stormy frown;

The sad sea moans afar.

A convent-gate is near; 'tis late;

Ting-ling! the bell they ring.

They ring the bell, they ask for bread—

"Just for my child," the father said.

Kind hands the bread will bring.

White was his hair, his mien was fair,

His look was calm and great.

The porter ran and called a friar;

The friar made haste and told the prior;

The prior came to the gate.

He took them in, he gave them food;

The traveller's dreams he heard;

And fast the midnight moments flew,

And fast the good man's wonder grew,

And all his heart was stirred.

The child the while, with soft, sweet smile

Forgetful of all sorrow,

Lay soundly sleeping in his bed.

The good man kissed him then, and said:

"You leave us not to-morrow!

"I pray you rest the convent's guest;

The child shall be our own—

A precious care, while you prepare

Your business with the court, and bear

Your message to the throne."

And so his guest he comforted.

O wise, good prior! to you,

Who cheered the stranger's darkest days,

And helped him on his way, what praise

And gratitude are due!

John T. Trowbridge.

Isabella and Ferdinand were with their army before Granada, and received Columbus well; but his demands for emoluments and honors in the event of success were pronounced absurd; the negotiations were broken off, and again Columbus started for France. The few converts to his theories were in despair, and one of them, Luis de Santangel, receiver of the ecclesiastical revenues of Aragon, obtained an audience of the Queen, and enkindled her patriotic spirit. When Ferdinand still hesitated, she exclaimed, "I undertake the enterprise for my own crown of Castile. I will pledge my jewels to raise the money that is needed!" Santangel assured her that he himself was ready to provide the money, and advanced seventeen thousand florins from the coffers of Aragon, so that Ferdinand really paid for the expedition, after all.

THE FINAL STRUGGLE

From "The New World"

[January 6—April 17, 1492]

Yet had his sun not risen; from his lips

Fell in swift fervid accents his desire,

And Talavera's eyes of smouldering fire

Shone with a myriad doubts, a dark eclipse

Of faith hung round him, and the longed-for ships

Ploughed but the ocean of his star-lit dreams;

Time had not tried his soul enough with whips

And scorns, for so the rigid Master deems

He makes his servants fit

For the hard toils which knit

The perfect garment, firm and without seams,

The world shall wear at last; his hurt brain teems

With indignation and he turns away

Undaunted, and he girds him for the fray

Once more; but first he hears the words of his good friend,

Marchena, strong with trust in the far-shining end.

His wanderings reached at last the lonely door

Of calm La Rabida; there the silence came

Grateful upon his grief's consuming flame;

The simple cloisters gave him peace once more,

And the live ocean rolled up to the shore

In ceaseless voice of promise; through the pines

The sun looked down benignant, and the roar

Of the far world of rivalries declines

Into an inward murmur

With each day growing firmer,

Whose sense is conquest at the last; as shines

A lamp across a rocky path's confines,

Making the outlet clear, Juan Perez' faith

Who heard him and conceived his words no wraith

Of fevered fancy but the very truth, was light

To bring the Queen to know his purposes aright.

O noble priest and friend! you reached the court

And turned the Queen from conquest's mid career

To hearken; other triumphs glittered clear

Before her, and again from Huelva's port

The seeker came; he saw Granada's fort

Open its gates reluctant, and the King,

El Zogoibi, bewail his bitter sort

And loss which made the rich Te Deums ring When on La Vela's tower The cross bloomed like a flower Of heaven's own growing; but the sudden spring, Loud with birds silent long that strove to sing, After the winter's weary voiceless reign, Was overcast with storms of cold disdain; Haughtily forth he fared and reached Granada's gates When the clouds lifted and the persecuting fates

Relented from their fury; for the Queen

Listened unto the urgings manifold

Of Santangel, and counsel, wise and bold,

Of the far-seeing Marchioness, whose keen Divinings pierced the misty ocean's screen And felt the deed must surely come to pass; So they recalled him, and his life's changed scene Grew bright with blooms and smile of thickening grass; O royal woman then Your hand received again The keys of a great realm; in the clear glass Of actions yet to be whose fires amass Infinite stores of impulse toward the good, Your image permanent lies; forth from the wood Of beasts malicious and the unrelenting dread You showed the way, but sought not from the gloom to tread.

The wind was fair, the ships lay in the bay,

And the blue sky looked down upon the earth;

Prophetic time laughed toward the nearing birth

Of the strong child with whom should come a day

That dulled all earlier hours. Forth on the way

With holy blessings said, and bellied sails,

And mounting joy that knows not let nor stay!

Lo! the undaunted purpose never fails!

O patient master, seer,

For whom the far is near,

The vision true, and the mere present pales

Its lustre, what mild seas and blossomed vales

Awaited you? haply a paradise

But not the one which drew your swerveless eyes;

Could you have known what lands were there beyond the main,

You surelier would have turned to gladsomeness from pain.

Louis James Block.

With the greatest difficulty, Columbus managed to secure three little vessels, the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and the Niña, and to enlist about a hundred and twenty men for the enterprise. Early in the morning of Friday, August 3, 1492, this tiny fleet sailed out from Palos and turned their prows to the west.

STEER, BOLD MARINER, ON!

[August 3, 1492]

Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee,

And the steersman drop idly his hand at the helm.

Ever and ever to westward! there must the coast be discovered,

If it but lie distinct, luminous lie in thy mind.

Trust to the God that leads thee, and follow the sea that is silent;

Did it not yet exist, now would it rise from the flood.

Nature with Genius stands united in league everlasting;

What is promised by one, surely the other performs.

Friedrich von Schiller.

The fleet reached the Canaries without misadventure, but when the shores of Ferro sank from sight, the sailors gave themselves up for lost. Their terror increased day by day; the compass behaved strangely, the boats became entangled in vast meadows of floating seaweed; and finally the trade-winds wafted them so steadily westward that they became convinced they could never return. By October 4 there were ominous signs of mutiny, and finally, on the 11th, affairs reached a crisis.

THE TRIUMPH[2]

From "Psalm of the West"

[Dawn, October 12, 1492]

Santa Maria, well thou tremblest down the wave,

Thy Pinta far abow, thy Niña nigh astern:

Columbus stands in the night alone, and, passing grave,

Yearns o'er the sea as tones o'er under-silence yearn.

Heartens his heart as friend befriends his friend less brave,

Makes burn the faiths that cool, and cools the doubts that burn:—

"'Twixt this and dawn, three hours my soul will smite

With prickly seconds, or less tolerably

With dull-blade minutes flatwise slapping me.

Wait, Heart! Time moves.—Thou lithe young Western Night,

Just-crownèd king, slow riding to thy right,

Would God that I might straddle mutiny

Calm as thou sitt'st yon never-managed sea,

Balk'st with his balking, fliest with his flight,

Giv'st supple to his rearings and his falls,

Nor dropp'st one coronal star above thy brow

Whilst ever dayward thou art steadfast drawn!

Yea, would I rode these mad contentious brawls

No damage taking from their If and How,

Nor no result save galloping to my Dawn!

"My Dawn? my Dawn? How if it never break?

How if this West by other Wests is pieced,

And these by vacant Wests on Wests increased—

One Pain of Space, with hollow ache on ache

Throbbing and ceasing not for Christ's own sake?—

Big perilous theorem, hard for king and priest:

Pursue the West but long enough, 'tis East! Oh, if this watery world no turning take! Oh, if for all my logic, all my dreams, Provings of that which is by that which seems, Fears, hopes, chills, heats, hastes, patiences, droughts, tears, Wife-grievings, slights on love, embezzled years, Hates, treaties, scorns, upliftings, loss and gain,— This earth, no sphere, be all one sickening plane!

"Or, haply, how if this contrarious West,

That me by turns hath starved, by turns hath fed,

Embraced, disgraced, beat back, solicited,

Have no fixed heart of Law within his breast,

Or with some different rhythm doth e'er contest

Nature in the East? Why, 'tis but three weeks fled

I saw my Judas needle shake his head

And flout the Pole that, East, he Lord confessed!

God! if this West should own some other Pole,

And with his tangled ways perplex my soul

Until the maze grow mortal, and I die

Where distraught Nature clean hath gone astray,

On earth some other wit than Time's at play,

Some other God than mine above the sky!

"Now speaks mine other heart with cheerier seeming:

Ho, Admiral! o'er-defalking to thy crew Against thyself, thyself far overfew To front yon multitudes of rebel scheming? Come, ye wild twenty years of heavenly dreaming! Come, ye wild weeks since first this canvas drew Out of vexed Palos ere the dawn was blue, O'er milky waves about the bows full-creaming! Come set me round with many faithful spears Of confident remembrance—how I crushed Cat-lived rebellions, pitfalled treasons, hushed Scared husbands' heart-break cries on distant wives, Made cowards blush at whining for their lives, Watered my parching souls, and dried their tears.

"Ere we Gomera cleared, a coward cried,

Turn, turn: here be three caravels ahead, From Portugal, to take us: we are dead!— Hold Westward, pilot, calmly I replied. So when the last land down the horizon died, Go back, go back! they prayed: our hearts are lead.— Friends, we are bound into the West, I said. Then passed the wreck of a mast upon our side. See (so they wept) God's Warning! Admiral, turn!— Steersman, I said, hold straight into the West. Then down the night we saw the meteor burn. So do the very heavens in fire protest: Good Admiral, put about! O Spain, dear Spain!— Hold straight into the West, I said again.

"Next drive we o'er the slimy-weeded sea.

Lo! here beneath (another coward cries) The cursèd land of sunk Atlantis lies! This slime will suck us down—turn while thou'rt free!— But no! I said, Freedom bears West for me! Yet when the long-time stagnant winds arise, And day by day the keel to westward flies, My Good my people's Ill doth come to be: Ever the winds into the West do blow; Never a ship, once turned, might homeward go; Meanwhile we speed into the lonesome main. For Christ's sake, parley, Admiral! Turn, before We sail outside all bounds of help from pain!— Our help is in the West, I said once more.

"So when there came a mighty cry of Land! And we clomb up and saw, and shouted strong Salve Regina! all the ropes along, But knew at morn how that a counterfeit band Of level clouds had aped a silver strand; So when we heard the orchard-bird's small song, And all the people cried, A hellish throng To tempt us onward by the Devil planned, Yea, all from hell—keen heron, fresh green weeds, Pelican, tunny-fish, fair tapering reeds, Lie-telling lands that ever shine and die In clouds of nothing round the empty sky. Tired Admiral, get thee from this hell, and rest!— Steersman, I said, hold straight into the West.

"I marvel how mine eye, ranging the Night,

From its big circling ever absently

Returns, thou large low Star, to fix on thee.

Maria! Star? No star: a Light, a Light! Wouldst leap ashore, Heart? Yonder burns—a Light. Pedro Gutierrez, wake! come up to me. I prithee stand and gaze about the sea: What seest? Admiral, like as land—a Light! Well! Sanchez of Segovia, come and try: What seest? Admiral, naught but sea and sky! Well! but I saw It. Wait! the Pinta's gun! Why, look, 'tis dawn, the land is clear: 'tis done! Two dawns do break at once from Time's full hand— God's, East—mine, West: good friends, behold my Land!"

Sidney Lanier.

At daybreak of Friday, October 12 (N. S. October 22), the boats were lowered and Columbus, with a large part of his company, went ashore, wild with exultation. They found that they were on a small island, and Columbus named it San Salvador. It was one of the Bahamas, but which one is not certainly known.

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores,

Behind the Gates of Hercules;

Before him not the ghost of shores,

Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now must we pray,

For lo! the very stars are gone.

Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?"

"Why, say 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day;

My men grow ghastly wan, and weak."

The stout mate thought of home; a spray

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.

"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"

"Why, you shall say at break of day,

'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,

Until at last the blanched mate said:

"Why, now not even God would know

Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way,

For God from these dread seas is gone.

Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"—

He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:

"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night.

He lifts his lip, he lies in wait,

With lifted teeth, as if to bite!

Brave Admiral, say but one good word:

What shall we do when hope is gone?"

The words leapt like a leaping sword:

"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night

Of all dark nights! And then a speck— A light! a light! a light! a light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

Joaquin Miller.

Columbus reached Spain again on March 15, 1493, and at once sent word of his arrival to Ferdinand and Isabella, who were at Barcelona. He was summoned to appear before them and was received with triumphal honors. The King and Queen arose at his approach, directed him to seat himself in their presence, and listened with intense interest to his story of the voyage. When he had finished, they sank to their knees, as did all present, and thanked God for this mark of his favor.

THE THANKSGIVING FOR AMERICA

[Barcelona, April, 1493]

I

'Twas night upon the Darro.

The risen moon above the silvery tower

Of Comares shone, the silver sun of night,

And poured its lustrous splendors through the halls

Of the Alhambra.

The air was breathless,

Yet filled with ceaseless songs of nightingales,

And odors sweet of falling orange blooms;

The misty lamps were burning odorous oil;

The uncurtained balconies were full of life,

And laugh and song, and airy castanets

And gay guitars.

Afar Sierras rose,

Domes, towers, and pinnacles, over royal heights,

Whose crowns were gemmed with stars.

The Generaliffe,

The summer palace of old Moorish kings

In vanished years, stood sentinel afar,

A pile of shade, as brighter grew the moon,

Impearling fountain sprays, and shimmering

On seas of citron orchards cool and green,

And terraces embowered with vernal vines

And breathing flowers.

In shadowy arcades

Were loitering priests, and here and there

A water-carrier passed with tinkling bells.

There came a peal of horns

That woke Granada, city of delights,

From its long moonlight reverie. Again:—

The suave lute ceased to play, the castanet;

The water-bearer stopped, and ceased his song

The wandering troubadour.

Then rent the air

Another joyous peal, and oped the gates

And entered there a train of cavaliers,

Their helmets glittering in the low red moon,

The streets and balconies

All danced with wondering life. The train moved on,

And filled the air again the horns melodious,

And loud the heralds shouted:—

"Thy name, O Fernando, through all earth shall be sounded, Columbus has triumphed, his foes are confounded!"

A silence followed.

Could such tidings be? Men heard and whispered,

Eyes glanced to eyes, feet uncertain moved,

Never on mortal ears had fallen words

Like these. And was the earth a star?

On marched the cavaliers,

And pealed again the horns, and again cried

The heralds:—

"Thy name, Isabella, through all earth shall be sounded, Columbus has triumphed, his foes are confounded!"

All hearts were thrilled.

"Isabella!" That name breathed faith and hope

And lofty aim. Emotion swayed the crowds:

Tears flowed, and acclamations rose, and rushed

The wondering multitudes toward the plaza.

"Isabella! Isabella!" it filled

The air—that one word "Isabella!"

And now

'Tis noon of night. The moon hangs near the earth—

A golden moon in golden air; the peaks

Like silver tents of shadowy sentinels

Glint 'gainst the sky. The plaza gleams and surges

Like a sea. The joyful horns peal forth again,

And falls a hush, and cry the heralds:—

"Thy name, Isabella, shall be praised by all the living; Haste, haste to Barcelona, and join the Great Thanksgiving!"

What nights had seen Granada!

Yet never one like this! The moon went down

And fell the wings of shadow, yet the streets

Still swarmed with people hurrying on and on.

II

Morn came,

With bursts of nightingales and quivering fires.

The cavaliers rode forth toward Barcelona.

The city followed, throbbing with delight.

The happy troubadour, the muleteer,

The craftsmen all, the boy and girl, and e'en

The mother—'twas a soft spring morn;

The fairest skies of earth those April morns

In Andalusia. Long was the journey,

But the land was flowers and the nights were not,

And birds sang all the hours, and breezes cool

Fanned all the ways along the sea.

The roads were filled

With hurrying multitudes. For well 'twas known

That he, the conqueror, viceroy of the isles,

Was riding from Seville to meet the king.

And what were conquerors before to him whose eye

Had seen the world a star, and found the star a world?

Once he had walked

The self-same ways, roofless and poor and sad,

A beggar at old convent doors, and heard

The very children jeer him in the streets,

And ate his crust and made his roofless bed

Upon the flowers beside his boy, and prayed,

And found in trust a pillow radiant

With dreams immortal. Now?

III

That was a glorious day

That dawned on Barcelona. Banners filled

The thronging towers, the old bells rung, and blasts

Of lordly trumpets seemed to reach the sky

Cerulean. All Spain had gathered there,

And waited there his coming; Castilian knights,

Gay cavaliers, hidalgos young, and e'en the old

Puissant grandees of far Aragon,

With glittering mail, and waving plumes, and all

The peasant multitude with bannerets

And charms and flowers.

Beneath pavilions

Of brocades of gold, the Court had met.

The dual crowns of Leon old and proud Castile

There waited him, the peasant mariner.

The trumpets waited

Near the open gates; the minstrels young and fair

Upon the tapestried and arrased walls,

And everywhere from all the happy provinces

The wandering troubadours.

Afar was heard

A cry, a long acclaim. Afar was seen

A proud and stately steed with nodding plumes,

Bridled with gold, whose rider stately rode,

And still afar a long and sinuous train

Of silvery cavaliers. A shout arose,

And all the city, all the vales and hills,

With silver trumpets rung.

He came, the Genoese,

With reverent look and calm and lofty mien,

And saw the wondering eyes and heard the cries

And trumpet peals, as one who followed still

Some Guide unseen.

Before his steed

Crowned Indians marched with lowly faces,

And wondered at the new world that they saw;

Gay parrots shouted from their gold-bound arms,

And from their crests swept airy plumes.

The sun

Shone full in splendor on the scene, and here

The old and new world met. But—

IV

Hark! the heralds!

How they thrill all hearts and fill all eyes with tears!

The very air seems throbbing with delight;

Hark! hark! they cry, in chorus all they cry:—

"Á Castilla y á Leon, á Castilla y á Leon, Nuevo mundo dio Colon!"

Every heart now beats with his,

The stately rider on whose calm face shines

A heaven-born inspiration. Still the shout: "Nuevo mundo dio Colon!" how it rings! From wall to wall, from knights and cavaliers, And from the multitudinous throngs, A mighty chorus of the vales and hills! "Á Castilla y á Leon!" And now the golden steed Draws near the throne; the crowds move back, and rise The reverent crowns of Leon and Castile; And stands before the tear-filled eyes of all The multitudes the form of Isabella. Semiramis? Zenobia? What were they To her, as met her eyes again the eyes of him Into whose hands her love a year before Emptied its jewels! He told his tale: The untried deep, the green Sargasso Sea, The varying compass, the affrighted crews, The hymn they sung on every doubtful eve, The sweet hymn to the Virgin. How there came The land birds singing, and the drifting weeds, How broke the morn on fair San Salvador, How the Te Deum on that isle was sung, And how the cross was lifted in the name Of Leon and Castile. And then he turned His face towards Heaven, "O Queen! O Queen! There kingdoms wait the triumphs of the cross!"

V

Then Isabella rose,

With face illumined: then overcome with joy

She sank upon her knees, and king and court

And nobles rose and knelt beside her,

And followed them the sobbing multitude;

Then came a burst of joy, a chorus grand,

And mighty antiphon—

"We praise thee, Lord, and, Lord, acknowledge thee, And give thee glory!—Holy, Holy, Holy!"

Loud and long it swelled and thrilled the air,

That first Thanksgiving for the new-found world!

VI

The twilight roses bloomed

In the far skies o'er Barcelona.

The gentle Indians came and stood before

The throne, and smiled the queen, and said:

"I see my gems again." The shadow fell,

And trilled all night beneath the moon and stars

The happy nightingales.

Hezekiah Butterworth.

Royal favor is capricious and Columbus had his full share of enemies at court. These, in the end, succeeded in gaining the King's ear; Columbus was arrested in San Domingo and sent back to Spain in chains. Isabella ordered them struck off, and promised him that he should be reimbursed for his losses and restored to all his dignities; but the promise was never kept.

COLUMBUS IN CHAINS

[August, 1500]

Are these the honors they reserve for me,

Chains for the man who gave new worlds to Spain!

Rest here, my swelling heart!—O kings, O queens,

Patrons of monsters, and their progeny,

Authors of wrong, and slaves to fortune merely!

Why was I seated by my prince's side,

Honor'd, caress'd like some first peer of Spain?

Was it that I might fall most suddenly

From honor's summit to the sink of scandal?

'Tis done, 'tis done!—what madness is ambition!

What is there in that little breath of men,

Which they call Fame, that should induce the brave

To forfeit ease and that domestic bliss

Which is the lot of happy ignorance,

Less glorious aims, and dull humility?—

Whoe'er thou art that shalt aspire to honor,

And on the strength and vigor of the mind

Vainly depending, court a monarch's favor,

Pointing the way to vast extended empire;

First count your pay to be ingratitude,

Then chains and prisons, and disgrace like mine!

Each wretched pilot now shall spread his sails,

And treading in my footsteps, hail new worlds,

Which, but for me, had still been empty visions.

Philip Freneau.

On November 7, 1504, Columbus landed in Spain after a fourth voyage to America, during which he had endured sufferings and privations almost beyond description. He was a broken man, and the last blow was the death of Isabella, nineteen days after he reached Seville. Her death left him without patron or protector, and the last eighteen months of his life were spent in sickness and poverty. He died at Valladolid, May 20, 1506.

COLUMBUS DYING

[May 20, 1506]

Hark! do I hear again the roar

Of the tides by the Indies sweeping down?

Or is it the surge from the viewless shore

That swells to bear me to my crown?

Life is hollow and cold and drear

With smiles that darken and hopes that flee;

And, far from its winds that faint and veer,

I am ready to sail the vaster sea!

Lord, Thou knowest I love Thee best;

And that scorning peril and toil and pain,

I held my way to the mystic West,

Glory for Thee and Thy Church to gain.

And Thou didst lead me, only Thou,

Cheering my heart in cloud and calm,

Till the dawn my glad, victorious prow

Greeted Thine isles of bloom and balm.

And then, O gracious, glorious Lord,

I saw Thy face, and all heaven came nigh

And my soul was lost in that rich reward,

And ravished with hope of the bliss on high,

So, I can meet the sovereign's frown—

My dear Queen gone—with a large disdain;

For the time will come when his chief renown

Will be that I sailed from his realm of Spain.

I have found new Lands—a World, maybe,

Whose splendor will yet the Old outshine;

And life and death are alike to me,

For earth will honor, and heaven is mine

Is mine!—What songs of sweet accord!

What billows that nearer, gentler roll!

Is mine!—Into Thy hands, O Lord,

Into Thy hands I give my soul!

Edna Dean Proctor.

COLUMBUS

Give me white paper!

This which you use is black and rough with smears

Of sweat and grime and fraud and blood and tears,

Crossed with the story of men's sins and fears,

Of battle and of famine all these years,

When all God's children had forgot their birth,

And drudged and fought and died like beasts of earth.

"Give me white paper!"

One storm-trained seaman listened to the word;

What no man saw he saw; he heard what no man heard.

In answer he compelled the sea

To eager man to tell

The secret she had kept so well!

Left blood and guilt and tyranny behind,—

Sailing still West the hidden shore to find;

For all mankind that unstained scroll unfurled,

Where God might write anew the story of the World.

Edward Everett Hale.

COLUMBUS AND THE MAYFLOWER

O little fleet! that on thy quest divine

Sailedst from Palos one bright autumn morn,

Say, has old Ocean's bosom ever borne

A freight of faith and hope to match with thine?

Say, too, has Heaven's high favor given again

Such consummation of desire as shone

About Columbus when he rested on

The new-found world and married it to Spain?

Answer,—thou refuge of the freeman's need,—

Thou for whose destinies no kings looked out,

Nor sages to resolve some mighty doubt,—

Thou simple Mayflower of the salt-sea mead!

When thou wert wafted to that distant shore,

Gay flowers, bright birds, rich odors met thee not,

Stern Nature hailed thee to a sterner lot,—

God gave free earth and air, and gave no more.

Thus to men cast in that heroic mould

Came empire such as Spaniard never knew,

Such empire as beseems the just and true;

And at the last, almost unsought, came gold.

But He who rules both calm and stormy days,

Can guard that people's heart, that nation's health,

Safe on the perilous heights of power and wealth,

As in the straitness of the ancient ways.

Lord Houghton.